“An annulment?” He gripped her shoulders, his fingers tightening. “Cara, I am on my way downstairs to make the announcement to the family. If you have any sense, Christina, you will keep your mouth shut! You will give the appearance of a sheepish—embarrassed, perhaps—but very happy bride. For God’s sake! Haven’t you the sense to stay alive!”
Fleeting emotions passed through her eyes, but the strongest remained fury. Marcus tightened his jaw and bit his inner lip. He wanted to shake her. He wanted her to understand that he was trying with all his might to protect her.
But he couldn’t explain.
Nor could he admit his own suspicions to her.
He closed his eyes quickly, then gave her a little shove and hurried from the room.
* * *
Chris felt as if she were drowning. Everything moved too quickly through her mind. Everything. Everything that had happened since she had come to Venice.
She couldn’t move. She could barely reason.
She was in shock.
She was Marcus di Medici’s wife.
CHAPTER 9
Chris stared at the door after Marcus had left, still stunned, still unable to believe what she had done. What they had done. And the one single question continued to ravage her pounding head: why?
Shivering, she sank back down to sit on the bed, trying to gather her wits about her. Marcus had married her, and she was quite convinced that though he was attracted to her, he certainly wasn’t in love with her. So…why?
Because he was protecting her? Or someone else?
Marcus couldn’t have murdered his own father. He had only been twelve at the time. But neither, Chris believed with all her heart, could her father have killed anyone. Marcus had tricked her into marriage without loving her; he had gone down to make a pointed announcement to the others about their marriage. Again, why?
Because he wanted someone in his family to believe that Alfred Contini’s money and holdings would all stay in the di Medici family?
Oh, God! It was all so confusing. And it was getting worse and worse, and now she was really terrified….
No, Marcus hadn’t murdered his own father. But there was a blackmailer as well as a murderer running around. There had to be, because Contini must have been blackmailed into keeping quiet about the murder. And that blackmailer must have been the one to cause Alfred’s death. A blackmailer capable of murder, too.
Chris had seen a cloaked figure on the night Contini died; that same cloaked figure had appeared in the galleries, hot in pursuit, only yesterday. And both times when she had seen the figure, she had seen Marcus immediately afterward. They had even found the cloak together….
At first she had assumed that the di Medicis were as wealthy as Contini. But from all the talk—including their own words—they were not. Marcus and Tony both claimed not to need Contini’s money, yet both of them were always spending money as if it were water.
Oh, God! Chris thought again, the pain in her head and the tumult in her heart making her dizzy. She lay back on the bed, conflict raging inside her. If she could only remember more of the night! What had happened after they had come back to the palazzo? He had too much power over her, way too much power. And she didn’t know if she could trust him or not….
There was a knock at the door. Chris started and bolted up quickly, so quickly that her head began to pound all over again. “Who is it?” she called out. Dear Lord! This was his room; she was in it, ostensibly living in it…now…with him. It was crazy. She felt like panicking, running…disappearing. Maybe she had pushed her luck too far; maybe she should just get away while she still could. She was being a fool, seduced into belief in a man who had just proved himself more dangerous than she had ever imagined.
“Christina! It is Sophia. Marcus said you wanted coffee. Let me in, please.”
She needed coffee! Nice time for him to think so! When all the damage was done…
She took a deep breath and opened the door.
Sophia swept into the room, setting down a tray with a silver pot and a china cup and saucer. Without glancing at Chris she poured out black coffee and handed her the cup, then stared at her critically.
“So, he married you.”
Chris raised the cup a little helplessly. What had he told her to be? A happy, if sheepish, bride?
“I had expected something between you,” Sophia muttered. “It was most obvious…but this!” She shook her head as if disgusted, then murmured, “Well, salute, Christina. You’ve done quite well here, haven’t you?”
“I thought I was doing quite well before I came here,” Chris murmured dryly, but then she remembered that she was supposed to be a happy blushing bride and she stepped past Sophia to stare out the terrace door, wincing slightly as the sunlight seemed to rip into her eyes. “But, of course, nothing in my life has ever been like Marcus.” That was true. Nothing and no one had ever touched her life as Marcus had.
“Hmmph!” Sophia muttered. “Yes, they are something, aren’t they, the di Medici men? But don’t count your blessings too soon, Christina. They are temperamental. They would be the kings of their castles. And they are as attractive to all women as they are to you. You must ask your mother-in-law one day. Life with a di Medici will not be all one glorious romp between the sheets.”
Chris took a sip of her coffee; it was so hot it burned her throat. She choked, but was careful not to look at Sophia, not to give anything away.
“Mario and Gina di Medici had marital problems?” she asked innocently.
“Of course. Who would not?” Sophia supplied maliciously.
Chris tensed, suddenly determined to draw Sophia out. “Sophia, do you mean that they fought…frequently?”
“Constantly. But you will see for yourself. It will be worse for you. You’re an American. And Marcus is an Italian man. Gina at least was Italian, too. But…it has been your choice.”
“I don’t believe you!” Chris charged. “Gina di Medici was very much in love with her husband from all that I hear!”
“Yes, yes, she loved him!” Sophia said impatiently. “That’s half the problem, yes? To love so much…and feel so little in return! And so the fights. Row upon terrible row. Why, even on the day that your father murdered Mario—”
Sophia broke off suddenly, and Chris tried not to pounce on her. “My father did not murder Mario,” she said flatly, then quickly added, “But you were about to tell me, Sophia—weren’t you?—that even on the day that Mario died, he and Gina were involved in a marital battle.”
“It is none of your concern!” Sophia snapped.
Chris smiled with what she hoped was naïveté. “It is my concern; I’ve just married Mario’s son! And I must learn to keep him. Poor Gina! It must have been all the worse for her to lose her husband when they had been engaged in a marital spat! It must have made the pain all the worse.”
“I’m sure it did,” Sophia murmured, watching Chris curiously. Then it seemed she lost all patience with the conversation. She shrugged. “I am amazed that Marcus married you, yet he has, and so I wish you both luck. You will excuse me, please? Gina is going to church, and I wish to get her key to the galleries.”
Chris frowned. “Gina’s key?”
“I’ve told Marcus that I shall go in today and defer his appointments.”
“I, uh, I thought only Tony and Marcus had keys to the galleries.”
“No, no. Gina has one, too. Why?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Chris murmured. Sophia swept her with another critical gaze, murmured that she looked like hell, and told her that she needed some rest if she intended to keep her husband for a week. Chris smiled and thanked her icily for the advice.
As soon as Sophia left Chris walked weakly back to the bed and sank down. She braced herself and swallowed her coffee, praying it would help.
Despite its heat, her teeth were chattering. Gina di Medici had a key to the galleries. Marcus had purposely lied to her about his mother. Gina and Mario had been fighti
ng on the boat. Did Marcus think his mother had killed his father? Did he believe that this charade of a marriage would hold his mother at bay without incriminating her? Did he believe that, if Gina was behind things, she would no longer attempt to harm Chris if Chris were his wife? Or perhaps it was the money! If they all believed that the money was still in the family—through marriage—did Marcus think that she would be safe?
Oh, dear God, she had to get away from them all!
There was another tap on the door. Chris was as jumpy as a bruised boxer about to receive another right punch to the jaw. “Who—who is it?” she called.
There was no answer, only a scraping sound against the door. She jumped up to swing the door open. There was no one there, only a note lying on the floor. She picked it up.
Someone had worked very quickly. In large block letters were the English words: “A di Medici bride has a place awaiting her in the di Medici crypt.”
Chris dropped the note, inhaling deeply. The night had been insane; the morning was becoming sheer lunacy. She had to get away and sort things out, had to find some way to make her head stop pounding. And dear God, she didn’t want to see Marcus again….
Chris set the note on his dresser and nervously hurried from his room along the terrace to her own. She was shaking so badly that she could barely dress, and as she dressed she started wondering how she had gotten into the white gown, and when she started thinking along that line she started shaking all over again.
Somehow she managed to pull on a corduroy skirt and knit blouse, and then she remembered that her purse must be back in Marcus’s room. She slipped quickly back along the terrace, and nearly screamed with tension when the phone beside the bed, French Provincial like the clock on the dresser, started to ring.
She froze, certain that someone would catch it on an extension downstairs. But the shrill ringing continued until her nerves were at the breaking point. Chris grabbed the phone and practically screamed, “Hello!”
There was a long silence. And then a very soft, heavily accented voice spoke. “Christina…”
Her name was drawn out. Shivers, like icy rivulets, raced from her nape along her spine.
“Who is this?” she demanded. “What do you want?”
“I have what you want,” the voice told her. “Information.”
“Tell me what you’re talking about!”
There was silence again, and then, “Can you pay? My price will be high, but my information will be worth it. I know who killed Mario di Medici.”
“What?” Chris gasped. She realized with a sick feeling that she had the blackmailer on the phone. But he had information to sell to her, and at this point she was very willing to pay.
“Yes, yes! I’ll pay,” she promised. “Tell me—”
“Not on the phone. Go to St. Mark’s. To the Basilica. Sit in a pew and I will find you.”
“Wait—”
The phone went dead. Chris stared at it, hung up the receiver, then picked it up again hurriedly, wondering if there were any way she could get an Italian operator to know that she wanted to trace a call.
She shivered again. Had the call come from outside the palazzo? Or was it possible that it had come from within the palazzo itself?
She sighed with frustration. She would never be able to make an Italian operator understand what she wanted. If she tried, she could end up with the operator calling back several times and possibly wind up with someone else on the phone.
Chris hesitated for a second, wondering if she shouldn’t tell Marcus about the call. In turmoil she reminded herself that she couldn’t trust Marcus any more than anyone else at the palazzo.
Indeed, she could trust him far less! she thought bitterly. Her life was a legal tangle because of him; he had taken her out and married her….
No! She definitely couldn’t trust him, and only moments ago she’d been desperately wanting to get away from him. She saw her purse on his dresser and grabbed it, then quietly opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony.
From the courtyard she could hear voices. She couldn’t go that way. She hurried down to the landing, then out the main entryway, practically racing down the steps.
She could see a vaporetto coming, but it wouldn’t stop for her, not on the di Medici steps. Anxiously she started looking for a gondola. It seemed forever before she saw one; she hailed it quickly. And for once in Venice she didn’t see or appreciate a thing. All she could think about was reaching the Basilica. The gondolier spoke a smattering of English; he tried to point out the impressive palaces. He told her how those condemned to death had walked the Bridge of Sighs, but she barely heard him.
When they reached St. Mark’s Square Chris shoved a wad of lire into his hands and stared up at the Basilica, then started hurrying across the Square. Pigeons soared and scattered all around her, but she ignored them, impatiently weaving her way through a crowd of tourists to walk up the steps into the church and enter the nave.
She didn’t see the artwork or the tombs, or any of the soaring beauty of the Basilica. She stared straight ahead at the altar, then looked around nervously, searching for someone who might be looking for her. She slipped into one of the pews, knelt—and waited.
No one came. Tourists flocked around the artwork and the smaller altars that lined the sides. They lit candles; they knelt and prayed. Chris grew restless. She stood up herself and walked around. She lit a candle, unable to pray, or even think. Eventually she wound her way back to the pew where she had been seated.
Her heart began to pound. There was a note on the pew exactly where she had been sitting. She picked it up. “You were followed. Same time. Same place. Next week.”
A bright flash of red at the rear of the Basilica suddenly caught her attention. Glancing up, Chris felt a chill settle over her. She saw a figure in a bright-red hooded cloak leaving the Basilica.
“Wait!” she called.
Priests and tourists turned to stare at her in shocked disapproval. Chris ignored them and started to run.
Outside the sunshine blinded her. She blinked furiously. The figure in red was gone.
Feeling sick and disappointed, Chris started down the steps. The Square seemed to be filled with dozens of tourists and hundreds of pigeons. Her headache returned a thousandfold.
She emitted a sharp expletive and started slowly across the Square, trying to scan the crowd for traces of red. Someone gripped her elbow and she spun around, a startled gasp escaping her. “Marcus!”
His fingers felt like talons, rough around her arm. His eyes were dark and churning, like the sea, and a pulse was beating in his throat at a furious rate.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” he demanded harshly. “I go up after announcing my newly acquired state of marital bliss, only to discover that my blushing bride has disappeared! Just what do you think you’re doing?”
She could feel his anger rushing over her like hot simmering waves. Instinctively she tried to shake free of his hold; he didn’t even appear to notice.
“I, uh, I felt the need to go to church!” she retorted, forcing her chin up in a show of bravado. “Quite frankly, I was praying for a way to get away from you—oh!”
He gave her a shake that wrenched her arm roughly, and she paused quickly, wondering what would happen if she started to scream insanely in the Square. He smiled as if reading her mind.
“This is Italy, Christina. And I am an Italian. Don’t expect much help against your legal husband here. I asked you: what are you doing?”
“How did you find me?”
“Quite simply. I asked among the gondoliers. Talk to me, Christina.”
“Talk to you! Why?” she asked him a little hysterically. “You’ve already tricked me and put us both in a totally untenable position. What more can you do?”
He raised a brow politely. “Would you like to find out?”
No, she thought, swallowing nervously and lowering her lashes very quickly to hide her eyes. She knew damned well th
at she’d never win in a one-on-one confrontation. She had to change her approach with no qualms. Not after what he had done.
“No,” she murmured out loud, wondering again how she could get away from him. She was going to have to trick him somehow. She would have to make him believe that she had entirely accepted the situation, then get to the police and the American embassy.
She raised her eyes to his, trying to appear very hurt, very lost and a little helpless. “Oh, Marcus! I’m just so confused and…miserable. Marcus, you know that Contini was murdered. You know that things are going on…. Marcus, we need the police.”
He released her arm, but entwined her fingers tightly with his own and started walking back through the Square toward the boats in the canal. “Marcus!” Chris snapped.
He stopped, staring at her. “What?”
“Damn it, Marcus! Why did you…why did you pull last night? Why did you marry me?”
He blinked. A shield as effective as a cloud fell over his eyes. “Because I couldn’t bear life without you one more second, cara mia,” he said with a humorless smile. He started walking again.
“You’re a liar, Marcus!” Chris snapped. His fingers tightened around hers; she felt the heat of his tension enveloping her like something tangible. Sensation rippled all along her body in a massive shudder, making her hot, making her weak. Where was he dragging her now? What was he going to expect of her? For a moment she hated herself. Hated her absolute weakness. No matter what happened, no matter how intelligent her thoughts, how aware her reason, he could touch her and he would have all the power. She would sizzle, she would tremble, unable to discern fear from the engulfing excitement that ravaged her when he was near.
She had to get away….
“Where are we going?” she asked him.
“Back to the palazzo—to act like newlyweds,” he told her curtly.
Chris lowered her head, not trying to escape his hold. She had to make him trust her again….
The Di Medici Bride Page 18